The Rum's Gone
by Tell Me You're Not Hydra
Summary: Jemma is stranded on an island with a pirate who drives her absolutely mad but that's not what is upsetting her about the situation.


"Yes, the _bloody rum is gone_." For God's sake, Jemma had heard the forlorn cry the first time even above the roar and swelling heat of the fire. Swearing in a voice an octave higher than it normally is erupts from the disbelieving woman behind her. Of course she would end up on an island with a pirate she can't even stand half of the time.

"…Come on, Jems, was it really necessary to waste—"

"_Jemma_!" She snaps in exasperation as she twirls on the spot to totally face her companion. Considering that it's Skye's fault that they're here in the first place, companion is a very strong and far too friendly word to use even considering what happened last night in the midst of indulging far too much rum. "My name is Jemma, thank you very much. Take care to remember that over condescending pet names that I haven't even given you permission to indulge in."

Jemma doesn't have to look up to know that her words will have stung Skye. They've been in each other's company for months even if it hasn't been the most amicable of relationships for most of the time. Perhaps they've been slowly getting more familiar with the other but she'd certainly never asked to be stranded and left for dead on an island with her. But, of course, her would-be right-hand man, Ward, just have to go and cause a mutiny amongst the crew which, obviously, has left them both in a highly unfortunate situation.

"Did you really have to use the rum?" Skye mutters but her tone has its familiar distant edge to it now over the gentle familiar warmth that it's been taking on increasingly over the last few weeks. Jemma frowns, uncomfortably wrapping her arms around herself. Her clothes stick heavily to her skin with the dampness of sweat.

"Considering that we wasted the night just…just _indulging_ self-pity when we should have been coming up with a solution for our problem? Yes." She spits out the words more forcefully than she feels them. The emphasis leaves a stinging hollow in her chest that quickly begins to fill with guilt when she hears the sharp intake of breath nearby.

"Self-pity?" Skye's voice wavers and Jemma's forced to finally face her properly. It's just for an instant but she sees the furrowed brow, widened eyes and parted lips because they slide behind a layer of neutrality. It's forced. She can tell because she's spent a lot of time just looking at Skye though she might not know it. Months on that damnable ship that she can't even really stand.

Skye's brute of a first mate had taken it upon himself during a raid to take her as a prize as though she was somehow the same as the jewelry he shoved into his pockets. As the daughter of the governor he'd assumed she would fetch a fair enough price to be returned. They'd been willing to pay in full and quickly but the actual process of returning her, she'd overheard Skye arguing with him in raised voices one night, was far too risky. Not worth it, Skye had snarled, not when it would end with the blood of her crew chumming the waters.

In hindsight, Jemma maybe never should have tried to put on that brave face that resulted in her blurting out that her father would have tons of ships coming after them. As it was, her words had only reaffirmed Skye's belief that they couldn't go anywhere near the place again. And dropping her off somewhere remote, Skye had fully looked at her when she'd said this, could be too dangerous. Skye refused to leave her to the wills of the world or, more prominently, any man who might take the same approach to seeing her as Ward had.

Never in her life had she expected to end up indefinitely in the company of a foreign woman and her mismatched multilingual crew. During some moments Skye would be smiling, laughing, and playfully bumping her knuckles against the arms of much larger men under her command. They yielded to her though. For a while, Jemma hadn't understood why. Then again, a lot of time had been spent in the ship's prison where her only entertainment was staring at barrels and crates right up until the day that Skye had come down to give her new clothes and the freedom to be a part of this new life she'd found herself in. The illusion of options was nice.

Now here she is on a beach. With Skye. Just staring at her because her tongue feels leaden, her mouth painful in its dryness. What she should be doing is speaking.

"Last night. All of that. It was 'self-pity'?" Skye demands. "Answer, _Jemma_."

God, she misses those foolish pet names now. The way they roll off of Skye's ton and accompany that smirk. That maddening, obnoxious smirk that catches her breath in her throat. Skye's lips can make any expression intoxicating. She's proven it. Like that smile that Skye caught her staring at last night when she turned after telling a story about something Jemma can't currently remember; the devastating part of her lips when Ward aimed a gun at her head and ordered her into the ocean; the awful quirk at the corner of her mouth when Jemma insisted that something could be done to save the both of them as the sun fell below the orange horizon.

"Yes." Jemma says. She's lying.

She sounds more forceful than she feels. Skye is maddening in her overconfidence. There's a bravado she pushes out into the world that she backs up with intelligence than raw brutality. (This is not to say she doesn't possess the latter because Jemma has seen her drive a blade into a man's shoulder for attempting to brutalize a cowering woman in the wake of a ship takeover.) She's irritating and cocky; she's rash and impulsive; she's a bloody pirate; an unabashed criminal, for Christ's sake.

Skye stares at her.

"Fantastic." The hard setting of her jaw makes Jemma want to blurt out just the opposite of what she's said. She knows what she actually means. It bubbles up in her heart, undeniably insistent.

Once, there had been a boy. Sweet and wildly intelligent. He'd been something of an inventor by night while working with a sword smith by day. Leopold had stammered out his affections in a tangent after she once kissed him on the cheek. She'd kissed him on the lips afterwards. His smile was like the sun. Roses would be presented before every outing together and he'd give her nothing but his most chivalrous behavior at evening's end. She remembers watching him walk down the stone road back home from her window.

The sun hadn't fully dropped from the sky that night so she could see every slight scuff of Leopold's foot against the ground. He'd turned back to look towards her. The light of his eyes had brightened her heart even against the small ache of him leaving. More distinctly, she remembers realizing what love feels like. Gentle, warm, brilliant; a fire in a too-long night of loneliness. Where other men had laughed when she spoke of science ("Isn't it cute when the little lady uses big words?" and "I'm trying to have a discussion, Jemma. Please don't interrupt with nonsense."), Leopold had not only encouraged her but understood exactly what she was saying; he'd smiled enthusiastically with those lips that kissed her so gently and when he nodded along, the curls of his hair bounced just so.

Surrounded by hard wood, a layer of the finest silk and flowers upon flowers, the words that had passed from her lips at his funeral through the surreal mist of tears was, "Good Lord, he's beautiful." And she'd lost him because the world was an unkind place filled with murderers and deceivers and Leopold was a kind soul who had protected someone innocent from a bad man only to receive a blade to the heart in thanks.

As Skye strides away from her with the air of someone trying very hard to look bigger than she is, all Jemma can think about is how the sun makes her hair shine. And she remembers now. That feeling with Leopold? She remembers it now but it horrifyingly, frustratingly, is very much not about him.


End file.
